


Kohl

by Nary



Category: Rome
Genre: Anal Sex, Being Roman, Bisexual Male Character, Fingerfucking, Guyliner, M/M, Make-up, Masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he first took up wearing Egyptian styles, Antony had a face-painter to assist him in anointing himself.  But after a time, he grew weary with having the eunuch poke and prod and pluck at his face each morning, noon, and night, and decided to take over the task himself...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kohl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karabair (likeadeuce)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/gifts).



When he first took up wearing Egyptian styles, Antony had a face-painter to assist him in anointing himself. But after a time, he grew weary with having the eunuch poke and prod and pluck at his face each morning, noon, and night, and decided to take over the task himself, which he did by shouting at the poor fellow to fuck off and groom someone else. His first efforts at tracing the lines of kohl around his eyes were shaky - well really, his hands were shaky. He hadn't had a drink yet that morning, after all. He wiped it off and reapplied it six times. Vorenus kept count. After the sixth failed attempt, Antony threw the little ivory jar against the wall, where it left a black and greasy stain that the slaves would later struggle to clean, when they weren't hiding from their master's temper.

"How fucking difficult can it be? _Women_ do this," Antony snarled.

"Yes," Vorenus replied dryly, "they do."

Antony turned on him. "Did I detect a note of disdain in your tone, Centurion Vorenus?"

"Not at all, sir. I was merely agreeing with you." Vorenus kept his eyes forward, not quite meeting Antony's furious black-smeared gaze.

"You're very agreeable," Antony said, going suddenly, dangerously, calm. "So agree to this. You're going to take this implement of torture," and he stabbed the air with the little black-tipped stick, "and apply my kohl for me."

Vorenus took the stick warily. "You threw the kohl away, sir."

"Then pick it up!" Antony roared, and sat back down at his vanity.

Vorenus, stifling an urge to grumble that this was not part of his job description, crossed the chamber and crouched to pick up the little jar. It still had some kohl in it - whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he couldn't make up his mind. He tried to remember where the eunuch had positioned himself to do the job. There was really no good place to stand, unless he was going to ask Antony to move, and he wasn't about to risk doing that. He settled for standing astride Antony's thigh, awkwardly. Holding the tools gingerly, as if they were tiny weapons, he considered his plan of attack.

What was on his commander's face right now was a mess. It would have to be cleaned off before he could even hope to do this properly. He set down the kohl-stick and pot and picked up the cloth with the oil. Antony twitched away when he tried to begin. "Hold still," Vorenus told him testily.

"Don't jab your fingers at my eyes, then! Give me a little warning," Antony complained, but closed his eyes so that Vorenus could rub away the smudged stains. He tried to be gentle, but the kohl was stubborn stuff, and it took a bit of force to wipe it off. Finally Antony's face was clean, unadorned - like a true Roman man's. Vorenus admired it, melancholy and nostalgic for the way things used to be.

One of Antony's eyes snapped open as the silence deepened. "Are you going to stare at me all day like a lovestruck girl, or paint my fucking face?"

"Getting to it, sir." Vorenus took up the cosmetics again. In his hand, the tiny applicator was like a toothpick. Tentatively, he dipped the flattened end into the ivory jar, scooping up some of the kohl - probably too much. He scraped some off on the rim and began his painting efforts.

"Gently," Antony muttered. "You're not tarring a ship."

"No sir." The initial daub of kohl was too thick, but maybe that was all right - it would obscure any blotches or trembles of the hand.

"Smooth, even strokes," Antony instructed him. "Like you'd give a virgin's tits."

"…yes, sir." Vorenus tried strenuously not to think about virgins' tits, or about anything else that might get him into trouble.

Despite his advice, Antony was impatient, twitching around to look at himself in the mirror several times before Vorenus finally got fed up. "You can stop admiring yourself," he told his commander gruffly, and took Antony firmly by the chin to hold his face still.

"If I'm not permitted to look in the mirror, how will I know whether I look pretty?" Antony smirked.

"You'll just have to wait for your entourage of catamites and whores to tell you so," said Vorenus, biting his lip in concentration. "Don't worry, they always do. Now open your eyes and look up, so I can do the lower line."

Antony did as he was told for once. "I don't just do this for the fun of it, you know," he said as Vorenus continued his work. "It's part of my diplomatic policy."

"Is it now."

"When in Egypt, do as the Egyptians, eh? For them to respect me, to see me as one of them instead of as an outsider who happens to be fucking their queen, I have to show them I'm civilized. This face-paint is part of civilization to them."

Vorenus could contain himself no longer. "You're not one of them! You're a Roman man, and you should comport yourself like one, not like a..."

"Like a what?" Antony's voice was in that dangerous, quiet range once more.

Vorenus had the good sense to fall silent. The right eye was looking as good as it was likely to get, in any case. "Other side, sir," he said, moving around to straddle his master's other leg.

"Caesar did it too, you know," Antony said, sounding somewhat calmer.

"Painted his eyes?" Vorenus had a hard time envisioning that, somehow.

"Not precisely. But do you know how Bithynia came into the Empire?"

"No, sir."

"Caesar was sent there by Marcus Thermus as an emissary when he was, oh, twenty or so. He was supposed to soften them up, use them to raise a fleet of ships. Their last king, Nicomedes, was a randy little bastard, and took an interest in the fresh meat. So Caesar did what he had to do."

Vorenus wasn't sure he wanted to know what that was, but he asked anyway. Antony seemed to take great relish in describing the debauched banquets where Caesar served as the king's cupbearer, fawning over him and tantalizing him with his youthful beauty . "Proper little cock-tease, he must have been," Antony said with a laugh that nearly made Vorenus blot his line. "Finally the king couldn't take it anymore. He had Caesar brought to his chambers, laid him out on a golden couch, and fucked him raw. Caesar couldn't sit down for a week – not that he was doing much sitting, Nicomedes had him on his knees more often than not."

Vorenus arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "He told you that?"

Antony shrugged. "I heard it, let's leave it at that. But the point of the story is, when Nicomedes died a few years later, he left his kingdom to Rome out of gratitude for everything they'd done for him. Everyone knew what that meant. An entire fucking kingdom for a boy's arse! Caesar knew how such relationships are forged, and wearing a bit of face-paint to win over a province is nothing compared to sucking some royal Bithynian cock." There was an odd sort of melancholy admiration in his voice.

"But didn't people mock him for it later? I remember a lewd song some of the soldiers sang at his Gallic triumph that...well, it makes a good deal more sense now."

Antony waved a careless hand. "They can sing whatever horrible songs they want at my triumph, so long as they cheer too." His hand came to rest on Vorenus's leg, just at the hem of his tunic. Vorenus though of asking him to move it, but that would mean acknowledging that it was there in the first place, so he didn't say anything. "What do they say about me?" Antony asked, as if out of idle curiosity.

Vorenus sighed. "Do you really want to hear this?"

"Of course," Antony replied. "Your brutal honesty is one of your most delightful characteristics."

"They say that Cleopatra is king here, and you are her queen. That you paint your face like a harlot and consort with eunuchs because you have become one yourself. That she puts on a man's clothing and bends you over to fuck you like a woman..."

"Enough," Antony said, cutting him off.

"You did say you wanted to hear."

"I know, I asked for it. I hadn't heard that last one before."

"At least I didn't ask if it's true," Vorenus said with a little smirk he hoped Antony couldn't see. He was nearly finished this ridiculous task, and then he could safely move away from that wandering hand without giving offence. It was creeping higher, teasing the warm crease where leg turned into arse... "There," he said, stepping back and in the process disengaging himself from Antony's lazy caress. "Feel free to admire yourself now, if you must."

Antony picked up the polished silver mirror and scrutinized Vorenus' handiwork. "It will suffice," he said at last, and Vorenus drew a sigh of relief that he wasn't going to be made to wipe it off and do it over again.

"You're not the type to go native, are you, Vorenus." Antony stood, rearranging his robes.

"No, sir," Vorenus said. His Roman clothing might be impractical in the Egyptian heat, but he wouldn't be caught dead in one of their filmy little linen loincloths that left nothing to the imagination.

"Think it would make you less of a man, don't you. You'd never lower yourself, not even if it meant gaining something you wanted so badly you could taste it."

Vorenus had the uncomfortable feeling he was being tested, and considered his response carefully. "There are some things a Roman man simply doesn't do," he said at last.

Antony's grin turned predatory. "It might do you good to try one of them sometime."

"I'm not wearing the fucking kohl, sir," Vorenus said stubbornly. "Or the loincloth."

"That wasn't what I had in mind," Antony told him. "Come here, Vorenus, and I'll prove that this soft Eastern court hasn't made me less of a man, lined eyes or no."

Vorenus did as he was told. There was a part of his spirit that would always yearn to obey his commander, no matter what orders he was given. He permitted Antony's touch, flinching only slightly when he curled his hand around the back of his neck and pulled him close. "No golden couch for you, I'm afraid," Antony murmured against his ear.

"I doubt I'll get a province out of it either," Vorenus said dryly. Antony's cock was hard against his thigh, pressing hot through the fine linen.

"Mmm, unlikely," Antony agreed, nipping at his throat. "But I'll find some way to reward you for your services. Hands on the vanity and brace yourself, soldier."

"Just one thing..." Vorenus said, as he grudgingly leaned over the table and let Antony push his tunic up roughly. There were plenty of oils on hand, at least, and judging from Antony's evident eagerness this wouldn't take long.

"What?"

"Try not to smudge your make-up, sir, I'm not about to do all that again."

Antony laughed low in his throat, and pushed oil-slicked fingers into him with one smooth motion. Vorenus grunted slightly, but took it. "Tell the truth," Antony said as he readied him, "it's your first time, isn't it."

"Only if you tell me the truth about whether Cleopatra does it for you," Vorenus said through clenched teeth.

"Do you like that thought?" Antony's hand slid faster. "Mm, I can tell you do. You'd do it for her if she asked – any real man would."

"I doubt it." Vorenus prudently chose not to tell him about the time, years ago, when he could have fucked the queen if he'd wished, but the very thought, combined with Antony's continued ministrations, warmed his blood considerably.

"Then perhaps I should feel honoured," Antony said, and planted a hand on Vorenus's shoulder to ease his entry. Soon all conversation was replaced with incoherent, bestial sounds, the steady slap of flesh against sweat-sodden flesh, and the occasional clatter and smash of bottles falling to the floor. Antony was rough but not brutal, taking his time, moving slower or faster in response to Vorenus's pleading cries. By the time Antony had finished with him, Vorenus was left wrung-out and emptied, knees trembling to the point of collapse, his hand wrapped around his now-softening cock.

"Feel less of a man, now that you've been fucked by a man who paints his face like a whore?" Antony asked cheerfully as he cleaned himself up.

"Ask me tomorrow," Vorenus mumbled from the floor, "when I see if I can sit down or not."

"Oh, I made that part up," Antony told him with a grin. "Don't worry – it's not so bad as all that. You might even learn to like it. Caesar did." He checked himself in the mirror one last time. "No smudges, Vorenus, you're spared for now. I may have to make this your new permanent position."

Vorenus only groaned and, once the flush had faded from his face and his legs had stopped shaking so badly, called for the slaves to clean up the ruined cosmetics.


End file.
